


Any Better Than This

by CupcakeGirlA



Category: Olympics RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Rio Olympics cracky married!fic. In Ryan's last race the board shows his name as Lochte-Phelps and people are all like wtf?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Better Than This

You’re kind of surprised it didn’t leak earlier. It’s like impossible to not have this stuff get out as soon as people get a whiff of it. You have to applaud the paper pushers at FINA, USA Swimming, and the IOC for not letting it become news fodder going into finals. Ryan had called you earlier, explaining that he’d gone down and filed the papers in person. The excitement in his voice had made you smile so big your mother had started to cry. 

You watch from the stands as Ryan walks out, as he raises his hands in the air in greeting, even as the fans all over the aquatic center react in confused surprise at his name appearing on the jumbotron wall behind him. 

RYAN LOCHTE-PHELPS  
USA

You find yourself standing up and screaming your head off, even as you feel your heart start to pound with adrenaline. It feels foreign, being so open in your support. You’d rarely had a chance to cheer on Ryan from the stands. And when you had, you’d always had to dampen your enthusiasm. But seeing him standing there, his name and yours linked together on the scoreboard and printed on the side of his cap, it makes you feel high, like you could float away across the crowd and never come down. So you cheer! And you hold nothing back. 

Your mom stands to one side of you, Ryan’s mother on your other. Further down the row is Ryan’s two brothers and sisters, and niece and nephews. One row back is a full second row, with Hilary behind you and then Whitney and her husband Bob, plus their kids. Basically both your families in their near entirety sitting in one big cluster, and you know without even looking that the cameras had immediately started scanning down the line of you, looking for shock on his mother’s face, or yours. You glance up at the big screen hanging at the other end of the arena and see your own face looking back, but the camera zooms right past you and up before settling on Hilary and you can’t help but laugh in response, shaking your head and looking back toward Ryan. You wonder how he’ll react when he sees the T-shirts. “Team Phlochte.” How appropriate. They’d been your mother’s idea and she’d been so proud and excited that it was finally happening you hadn’t done anything but nod your approval, and then watched her trot off to place the order. Now you all stood, every last one of you, even the baby nestled against Megan’s chest, in the loudly neon green shirts. It is Ryan’s favorite color. 

Ryan’s made his way to block 4, and he’s already stripping out of his sweats, kicking off sneakers and pulling off his t-shirt, game face on. You know he can hear the extra loudness of the crowd, the queer tone of confusion emanating from the entire arena. Even the other swimmers look confused. Your eyes find Clary, three guys down on the outside lane. He’s staring at the side of Ryan’s head with dark eyes, probably reading and re-reading the Lochte-Phelps printed there. Your eyes track back to Ryan, whose stretching his legs and smirking. Oh yeah, he definitely knows what the reaction is, and he looks pretty happy about it. 

Idly you wonder what Dan and Rowdy are saying as they watch and offer their take on the NBC commentary. You look back at Hilary and you’re fairly sure what the general consensus is. You grin and look back at Ryan. If they only knew... Well, they will soon enough. 

The crowd seems to calm as the racers are ordered to climb up onto the starting blocks, growing silent out of respect for the swimmers about to race the 200IM. 

Your eyes focus solely on Ryan, all of your energy going into willing him to race well. To win. 

It’s the most nervous you’ve ever been during a race before, and by the end you’re as out of breath and exhausted as if you’d swam it yourself. But your eyes go to the scoreboard searching ‘til you find his name. 

LN 4 Lochte-Phelps, Ryan 1st 

Ryan lets out a primal yell from the pool, as the crowd erupts even louder than before. 

You start to scream, jumping up and down, and letting your long arms fold around your mother and Ike on either side of you. You’re all screaming, jumping up and down and hugging each other. You let go of the two women, turning around to reach for your sisters, and they’re just as ecstatic and happy as you are. 

You turn back and Ryan’s grinning, face and chest flushed red and fist raised in the air in triumph. He points toward the lot of you, still panting for air but so happy he probably doesn’t yet feel the burning ache about to set in. You’re astoundingly proud. He’s an 18 time Olympian and he’s all yours. 

Ryan climbs out of the water and dodges past Andrea Kramer, not wanting to field any questions from her. Not about his name change, or his love life. Certainly not about whether or not he’s retiring. Only you and he know the answer to that one. Well the two of you and Coach Troy. They’ll all have to wait for further word. Ryan waves to the crowd before disappearing back behind the scenes. He has laps to swim in the warm down pool and clothes to change into before he can officially accept his gold medal. Not to mention the cup waiting to be filled for his piss test. Such is the life of an Olympic Gold Medalist. 

It’s 30 minutes before they hold the medal ceremony. And Ryan is all smiles and shiny grill when he jumps up onto the top step to accept his gold medal and his flowers, tropical flowers this time, bright orange and red, with leafs of a bold yellowy green. You half expect the arena to have started to empty out by now. Usually people don’t stick around for the last medal ceremony, preferring to beat the rush back to their homes or hotels. But the place still seems oddly full. You put your hand over your heart, watch Ryan do the same, and you and thousands of others turn to face the flag as it’s raised into the air and the Star Spangled Banner starts to play. 

There’s the usual photo-op once the anthem’s played and then they finally let Ryan go. You instantly know what’s coming, because he’s not posing like usual. He’s not walking and smiling, and biting his medal every three seconds as he and the other medalists travel slowly around the pool deck for the press. Instead he’s heading straight for your section. The break in protocol has everyone suddenly in action, photographer’s following, people moving out of the way, and he’s boosting himself up and over the rail like it’s not 8 feet in the air, his face all smiles. He lands with enough force that your ankles wince in sympathy, but he just flings himself up the stairs, skipping every other step to reach your row. He slides past your mother, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he goes, and you lean back, knowing what will come first. He gives his mother the bouquet of flowers, hugging her tightly, and kissing her on the cheek. Listening intently while he gets an ear full of praise and happy congratulations. Once she’s done with him you know he’ll turn to you. And he does. 

He stands huffing a little with adrenaline and exertion, face flushed and proud. 

“Gimmie!” he demands, holding his hand out like a child, and you want to roll your eyes. 

“Give you what? You giant doofus!” you reply, arms crossed over your chest. He smirks, pressing closer, his body making full thigh to chest contact with yours, your arms dropping immediately out of the way. You can practically hear the collective breath being drawn in as everyone in the arena seems to gasp at once. 

“My ring, you asshole!” he says, mouth hovering just over yours, but not touching. You grin, reaching into your back pocket, and pulling it out. You hold it up and he smiles so widely his eyes practically disappear. He holds out his left hand and you’re reminded of the moment, 6 months before when you’d done this for the first time. You slip the platinum and diamond ring on his finger, watching it slide down to rest in place. Perfect. 

“That’s a fine way to talk to your husband,” you murmur. He pulls a face, scrunching up his nose and you are tempted to peck him on the lips. “Congratulations,” you say softly, and his whole face lights up with a crooked grin. 

“Thanks,” he replies. 

“You know they all think you’re married to Hilary,” you whisper, and he looks up at her over your shoulder, his face so adorably confused and disgusted that you put your head back and just have to laugh. He rolls his eyes at your amusement, hands sliding around your waist tightly, his latest gold medal pressing hard into your sternum. 

“Well they’d be wrong, wouldn’t they?” he asks. And then he kisses you. It’s a messy aggressive claiming kiss that will leave no doubt whatsoever just where he’s gotten the Phelps in Lochte-Phelps. 

In that moment you don’t care that everyone knows. That the image of you and Ryan locking lips will be one of *the* images of the Olympics. That speculation and discussion will run rampant. People will ask when you both “turned gay,” like you were ever really straight. People will inquire about how you got together? When? Who knew? Who didn’t? When had you got married? They’ll pick at you, Ryan, and everyone you’ve ever known for any stray detail they can get. They’ll search back through 12 years of shared history for proof of when this thing between you had started and why they’d never caught on. 

But none of it will matter. Because you have Ryan and he has you. The two of you are married, and in love, and happy. And yes, he’s going to continue training for 2020, and he may have sort of talked you into training again too, “just to see what could happen.” But all that is irrelevant. The Olympics are over, and you have two weeks planned for a belated honeymoon on a tropical island with the love of your life. 

It doesn’t get any better than this.


End file.
